


The Death of Me

by TheThirdGreywaren (ShelbyDraven)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Tranquil Inquisitor, characters mentioned but no dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyDraven/pseuds/TheThirdGreywaren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it ends, one half mourns, and the other doesn’t realize what ended in the first place</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Piran Lavellan knows that he saved the world.

He hears the stories most days, and sees the statues and paintings they create in his honor. He listens to the beautiful lull of the bard woman’s voice as she sings the heroic acts he performed.

That’s not all she sings, however. The bard - Maryden, Piran remembers with little interest - tends to sing a very specific song every other evening, and her sorrowful voice tells Piran what grief he should display, but he can’t feel anything.

The song doesn’t mention Dorian Pavus’s name specifically; it just refers to him as the Tevinter mage. Piran figures that history will erase Dorian’s name from history, although he doesn’t really care at all, truly.

They are just stories, after all.

 

* * *

 

Piran often sees Dorian out of the corner of his eye.

He spends his time in the library, researching various topics for the Seekers under Cassandra’s requests. The Inquisition has changed, Piran realizes over the days. He’s not sad about it; he is simply aware. Leliana was now Divine, and Ambassador Montilyet and Commander Cullen worked as usual. Sometimes he was allowed to join in on war table councils, although it was rare that either advisors could look him in the eyes.

So Cassandra stepped in to help, and all final decisions were sent to his desk for approval. He usually signed off on everything easily enough.

Piran is in the library as usual, and he reads his books and writes notes. It’s automatic now, to do this type of work. He knows what Cassandra wants, and that is what he gives her.

But today, he has a rare visitor.

“ _Amatus_?” Dorian whispers. Piran heard the Tevinter refer to him as that before, but all meaning is lost on him. Whatever it meant before, it must have been important, because eventually the dwarf that used to reside in Skyhold - Piran can’t remember his name. Varon? Merrick? - asked him to respond whenever Dorian calls him that. Piran agreed to the request, and he does so now.

He looks up from his notes, and adds a smile. He sees something flicker in Dorian’s eyes, and the mage looks hopeful, almost, before his eyes glance up at the sunburst mark on his forehead.

His face crumbles.

“Do not be sad, Dorian,” Piran says. The spirit boy - Connor? - told him that Dorian was always sad now, and asked Piran to help. Piran agreed to the request, like usual. So he tries to mend the hurt scrawled across the other man’s face.

He stands, and looks up at Dorian with a smile. Dorian lets out a mangled sob and pulls Piran close, burying his face into the crook of the elf’s neck.

“I’m sorry, _Amatus_. I’m sorry for not saving you.”

Piran remains quiet and still, letting the man weep. No sorrow fills him, but something lingers on the boundary of his mind before it fades, gone and not mourned.

Dorian pulls away, his eyes wet with tears, and Piran smiles. He reaches up with both hands to cup the mage’s cheeks. Dorian’s eyes flutter shut. Loose tears streak down his face.

“I am fine, there is no need to cry,” Piran reassures him. Dorian opens his eyes, and his hands reach up to grip Piran’s tightly.

Piran smiles, but he doesn’t mean it.

How can you be sincere in something you don’t feel?


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian remembers it all.

The memory and its resulting loss will be forever seared into his mind, he thinks. Any chance for it to creep to the back of his mind becomes destroyed by a quick glance at the robot functioning as the man he loved.

Dorian researches for a cure, of course. That’s all he can do. He can’t leave for Tevinter - and a very selfish part of him doesn’t want to return at all, now - and leave Piran like _this_.

He’s not going to leave his _amatus_ ruined.

Although it is… disheartening, to hit a wall at every turn. Cassandra’s Seeker book did little to help with a cure; no spirit would dare risk destruction to salvage Piran’s mind, not when the Mark was a glaring warning to stay away.

So Dorian keeps researching.

And the days continue to pass with little hope.

 

* * *

 

Something touches his shoulder.

He is awake in a second, sitting up so quickly that his visitor takes a half step back. His face is warm, and there is the undeniable feeling of dried saliva on one side of his face.

He drooled. _Wonderful_.

He casually swipes a hand across his mouth, and any clever comment that lays across his tongue is swallowed down when he sees just who is in front of him.

“Piran?” He says, and his voice is hushed. Never has the elf approached him, not since his Tranquility curse. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment, but his heart is soaring with hope.

“Cole suggested that I do this,” Piran explains, his voice devoid of any emotion and therefore _any hint as to what in Maker’s name ‘_ this' _is_ -

Dorian’s thoughts screech to a halt when Piran moves forward, and presses his lips against Dorian’s.

He is weak.

He kisses back fiercely, savoring the sweet taste of Piran’s lips, something longed for during lonely nights and empty days. For a minute, he can fool himself. He can imagine that Piran isn’t ruined, and this moment is just another in their daily lives. He can imagine that his failure never occurred, and everything is good.

Then he realizes the harsh reality; Piran is not there.

Physically, he is. His mouth is still sweet and his warmth leaks into the air; comfortable and familiar. Dorian knows every inch of this man. He knows that he can reach up and slip his hands under the ridiculous pajama-uniform Piran’s advisors gave him, and feel the soft yet scarred skin and corded muscle beneath. He can weave his fingers into Piran’s soft and rust-colored strands, then let his fingertips brush against the pointed tip of his ears, just so the elf trembles in his arms.

But mentally, Piran Lavellan is gone.

He is still and unresponding to the kiss, so Dorian pulls back, albeit slowly, in case Piran is miraculously restored and wants to give Dorian a real kiss.

Nothing happens, of course. Piran is emotionless as always. Dorian feels the warmth in his chest evaporate, and when Piran respectfully nods his head and takes his leave, Dorian feels as empty as his former lover’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was going to be the last part. And technically, it could end here. But, since I am not entirely cruel, I do have one more part in the works that will hopefully tie this together a little more nicely.  
> And it comes with fluff.  
> You're welcome.
> 
> P.S.: Thanks for the wonderful comments and kudos! It made my day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this quickly before I go to the beach, so excuse any mistakes. I changed the tags so they matched this new chapter, and I am so sorry for the wait. As you can see, I got carried off...

There is so much hurt, Cole feels like he is drowning in it.

In the very beginning, when the Inquisitor and his party first returned to Skyhold, the reaction of the rest of the inner circle was like a sea, and Cole was bobbing amongst the waves. Everyone felt guilty, and sad, and Cole couldn’t fix the hurt no matter how hard he tried.

He couldn’t reverse Tranquility. If he could, he would have in a heartbeat; nothing was worse than hearing only emptiness where the shining star used to be.

Everything only got worse later that evening, when the second party arrived with Dorian.

The anguish yanked Cole under the waves, the mage’s pain a howl in the silence compared to everything else. In all of the hurt, Cole felt suffocated, and he had left Skyhold for a short period of time just to breathe.

He had returned shortly after, of course. He wanted to help. He hated to see Piran so devoid of life, and after everything that the Inquisitor had done for him, he promised to do anything to help.

Which turns out to be very little, at first.

* * *

 

“Cole, do stop your hovering. It’s unnerving.”

Cole stumbles closer to Dorian’s preferred chair, feeling too determined to be upset that he was caught.

“Dorian, your hurt is so loud,” Cole admits, “I want to help.”

Dorian scowls at the book in his hands, then sighs. When he lifts his head to address Cole, the young man sees the sadness in his eyes. It’s merely a flicker of the anguish that crackles like a bonfire inside of him, but it still twists Cole’s heart with hurt.

“You can’t help this, Cole,” Dorian says in exasperation. He closes his book with a sharp snap, and suddenly flings it across his tiny alcove, where it strikes the bookcase on the opposite wall. “And neither can I, apparently.”

“Eyes like the constellations, he smiles like the sun. Everything is duller now.” Cole shifts closer to Dorian, frowning. “My fault...”

“Maker, Cole, please stop,” Dorian snaps. He rubs his face with one hand wearily. Cole pushes forward, unperturbed by the anger.

“He doesn’t hurt, not like you. You scream so loud it’s hard to hear, it hurts.”

Maker, Dorian wishes that the floor would swallow him up and end this sudden therapy session. Instead, he shakes his head, focusing his glare at the book he threw instead of the spirit-turned-boy.

“You’re not going to leave until you feel satisfied, aren’t you?”

“I want to help,” Cole says, determination strengthening his words. Of course, Dorian thinks, he couldn’t avoid the boy forever, but he really wishes that he could.

“Fine,” he sighs in defeat, “but let’s move this feel-fest to somewhere more private, such as... my quarters.” There is the always the hesitation when Dorian tries to avoid saying ‘the Inquisitor’s quarters’, because he is learning to live without that hope for more, although the lesson doesn’t stick as easily, not all the time.

“You have that look about you again. What is it now?” Dorian asks Cole this, even though they are in the empty hallway and still walking towards his room, but Cole feels the desperation welling up inside of Dorian. The taste of harbored grief coat the back of their throats, bittersweet because the person they miss most is still breathing, and hard to swallow because there is nothing but a shell left.

He answers simply, “You’re giving up.” Varric had taught him how to be more specific, and Cole hopes he applied the lesson well enough.

Dorian is silent, but his inner thoughts are waves crashing against the shore, a rising crescendo that doesn’t fade, not for five whole heartbeats.

Even then, it only grows faint, never fading, always screaming at the injustice. Cole wonders if Dorian can even hear his own thoughts with all that misery.

“Trust me, it’s not like I want to,” Dorian says finally. They reach his room, and Dorian heads in first, moving to the desk immediately to pour himself a glass of wine. Cole follows, silently, contemplating. He remembers to close the door as Dorian takes the first sip of his full glass.

“Bitter tastes can’t smother his sweetness, not when it has turned bittersweet,” Cole says. He wishes he had the chance to put honey in Dorian’s wine without his noticing.

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Dorian sounds so tired, it makes Cole weary as well. Dorian’s thoughts are so numerous and flying, a thousand tiny butterflies that Cole isn’t fast enough to catch and properly inspect.

“Great, now you’re babbling about insects,” Dorian tells Cole, but the words fall into his wine. Cole frowns.

“Why, Dorian? Why are you giving up? Determined yet dubious, fearing failure more than finishing and fixing. ‘This is more’, but not anymore.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Dorian whispers. “Kaffas, I failed him. I can’t-”

Dorian falls silent. His mind roars.

“I can’t fix him.”

Cole tilts his head, and angles it forwards just enough that the brim of his floppy hat casts his eyes in shadows. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and powerful to see, even when you’re not all spirit anymore. Dorian seeks power, seeks the possible cure that sings in the veins.

Dorian wants blood.

“It sings a sweet song but it is the resort of the weak mind, not the weak heart.” Cole catches the butterfly of the thought, along with the glimpse of an elven servant girl that smiles like gems.

“I know.” Dorian’s voice is a growl, but it’s aimed at himself, not Cole. He’s angry at the thought, angry at his own desperation, and Cole feels the echo of this fury beat in his heart. Cole approaches him, his feet silent on the cold stone, and places a comforting hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Briefly, Cole notices how Dorian doesn’t leave one shoulder uncovered anymore, and he wonders if it’s because of the chill inside that never wavers, only grows sharper when he meets empty eyes across the library.

“We will help him,” Cole assures him. He grasps onto a memory, when the sun in Val Royeaux isn’t as warm as Piran’s caring smile. “He watched me walk into darkness, and always worried. Now it’s our turn to help him.”

Dorian relaxes at Cole’s touch, and the sadness on his face melts into cautious hope. “And how, pray tell, do you suggest we do that? I’ve researched all books on the tranquil several times through, I’ve harassed Cassandra enough to know that nothing can help with that damned Mark scaring away spirits...” Dorian trails off. Hesitates, then turns his head to look up at Cole.

“Cole...” The ray of hope in Dorian’s voice is sweet compared to the grief, and Cole regrets his own uselessness as he shakes his head.

“The Mark could destroy you,” Dorian says, “And you’re more human now.”

Cole nods. Dorian turns his attention back to glass of wine, where only two sips have been taken from it.

“The stolen blood is stained, a sharp stab that nurtures stronger walls,” Cole taps Dorian’s covered shoulder, then retracts his hand. He lets it fall to his side and continues softly, “Soft touches and stolen kisses, the murmurs stain his reputation, but neither of you want to give up. The darkness hold him tightly, but the hold slips when you’re around.”

“So what do you suggest?” Dorian snaps.

“The memories are cast in green light. ‘The Fade bleeds into this place’. The Fade remembers everything, it is everything.” Cole shifts his weight, pausing to collect his next sentence carefully. The hardest part about being human was trying to help first without hurting more, because it was not as easy to make them forget. Varric’s support helped, though, and Cole finishes simply, “The slice of the Fade holds the memories and he begins to remember with it.”

“What? He has to go to a rift, or something?” Dorian frowns, his mind working through the details and carefully dissecting Cole’s words. “Are there even any left in Thedas?”

The last part was mostly to himself, but Cole answers, “The first rift is the key, it can unlock the door keeping him within himself.”

“The Breech? I take him to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and then what? He’s magically himself again? What if I take him away, will he be tranquil again?”

“They’re bolder near the old tear, hoping that it can be worn down again. One can help, if you ask.”

“‘They’? Spirits, you mean?” Dorian looks excited again. “We can do the ritual at the temple, then?”

Cole smiles at his newfound enthusiasm, and Dorian takes it as the answer he needs.

“Venhedis! I’ve got to tell Cassandra!” Dorian stood, clapped a hand on Cole’s shoulder in thanks, then left, his mind preoccupied with this new development.

Later he would deny that he ran, and Cole would only smile.

* * *

 

Cole finds that he enjoys the views of the mountains surrounding Skyhold. He sits on the ledge of the battlements, his feet swinging gently, his head tilted as he listened.

It wouldn’t be long now, when the Inquisitor would return with his party. They left early in the morning, Dorian eager to get there as soon as possible, and Cole found the excitement contagious.

Word hadn’t reached Skyhold yet, but Cole felt like he could tell long before the resident spymaster could.

Just an hour later he is proven right, when he sees the party’s horses approaching, and he can sense the brightness engulfing the group.

“Welcome back,” he whispers.


End file.
